


John Boehner Gets a Handjob and Likes It

by fingalsanteater



Series: John Boehner [2]
Category: Political RPF - US 21st c., Real Person Fiction
Genre: American Politics, Crack, Dom/sub Undertones, Hand Jobs, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 20:24:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1871232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fingalsanteater/pseuds/fingalsanteater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obama knows Boehner's lawsuit is just a stunt to get his attention, so, again the President gives him what he wants. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1084065">John Boehner Gets Spanked and Likes It</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	John Boehner Gets a Handjob and Likes It

"If you wanted my attention, John, you've got it."  
  
Obama was perched casually on the edge of John Boehner's desk, long fingers caressing a smooth glass paperweight. When Obama had barged in, just a few minutes ago now, and plopped his entitled ass down, John had squawked, undignified, at the intrusion. He should have had him forcibly ejected from his office, but his curiosity won out. John still thought about the last time he and the President were alone together like this. Sometimes he took himself in hand, cock hard at memory of his burning ass, coming with the President's name burbling from his lips.  
  
"This lawsuit stunt is ridiculous, don't you think?" He was looking John straight in the eyes and John felt his cheeks heat under the President's intense gaze.  
  
John began, "It's not a stunt. You've violated--"  Obama laughed loud, head thrown back, white teeth gleaming and John swallowed down the rest of his words, his audible gulp drowned out by Obama's boisterous laugh.  
  
In between chuckles Obama managed to say, "Violated! John, please. Stop with these desperate attempts at getting my attention. I know what you want. I just need you to talk to me. Tell me what you want, John. Truthfully."  
  
Mulish, John remained silent.  
  
"Alright," said Obama, seeming perturbed at John's steadfast refusal to talk. "If you are going to continue being difficult, we will do things the hard way."  
  
Obama pushed away from the desk, stripped off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. The familiarity of the action set his blood boiling, and John's cock swelled at the memory of last time.  
  
"Stand, John, and come here," Obama commanded.  
  
"N-no," he stuttered. There would no way to hide the bulge in his pants this time.  
  
Obama sighed, long-suffering. "I'm not stupid, John. As much as you like to think I am. I know your cock is as hard as a rock thinking about what I'm going to do to you. Now, get up and sit your ass on this desk where I can see you."  
  
John goggled, mouth open, shame and surprise and arousal burning him up. Mechanically, with shaky legs, he stood, stepped around the desk.  
  
"Wait," said Obama, before John managed to slide up on the desk. "I want your pants around your ankles first."  
  
Mind whirring with possibilities, John managed to unclasp his belt and undo his button and fly with fumbling fingers. His pants dropped unceremoniously to the floor with a whisper of fabric and a clang of the belt buckle, leaving him his underwear. His cock felt freer, but still strained against the cotton, his wet tip leaving a damp patch.  
  
Impassive, Obama motioned to the last barrier protecting John's cock from scrutinizing eyes of the President of the United States and said, "Those too."  
  
Hesitantly, slipped the underwear over his hips, over his cock and down his legs. When he straightened up, he tried to stand proud, his swollen, red and wet tipped cock curving up and now straining against nothing but the cool air of his office.  
  
"On the desk, legs spread as wide as you can get them." Obama's voice was smooth as silk. There was no evidence that this strange sexual power play was affecting him at all. John pushed a few things aside to make room and slid up on to the desk, his balls resting just along the edge.  
  
"Now," purred Obama, "you wanted my attention and you've got it. But, you'll have to ask nicely when you want something from now on." John's mouth was suddenly very dry. A drop of pre-come slid from the head of his cock.  
  
"Do you know how to say please, John?"  
  
John nodded, just a slight dip of his chin.  
  
Obama quirked a smile that was not unlike a sneer. "What was that? You'll have speak up, John. Are you the Speaker of the House or not?"  
  
"I know how to say please," John answered, voice only quaking slightly.  
  
"Good, good," said Obama, loosening his tie. "Do you want to touch yourself, John? I see your fingers there, clenching like they want to grab ahold of something. That something could be my neck," he chuckled, "but I think you'd rather release a bit of tension another way."  
  
God, did John want to wrap his hand around his dick. He was aching to be touched.  
  
"Stop," snapped Obama when John moved his hand. "Only if you say please."  
  
John closed his eyes against the surge of arousal that crashed through him at the command and wondered how he got himself into this situation. Wondered why it turned him on so fiercely. Wondered how the President seemed to know his desires so intimately.  
  
"Please," he uttered, voice a almost whisper.  
  
Obama said, "Touch yourself, then."  
  
His hand on his dick felt better than it ever had before. He groaned loudly and uninhibited as he palmed the shaft, gathered pre-come on his fingers and used it ease the slip across his taut skin.  
  
He was so distracted by the feel of his cock in his hand, he startled when he felt Obama's breath hot on his ear. John's legs were bracketing Obama's hips and he pressed them together slightly just to feel the smooth fabric against his bare thighs.  
  
"Do you want me to touch you, John," Obama asked.  
  
John didn't hesitate this time. "Please," he begged, his shame drowned out by his reckless desire.  
  
"Since you asked so nicely." Obama's hand caressed John's balls, rolled them in his hand. His fingers skimmed upwards and replaced John's own on his cock. Thumb circling the head, he rubbed the sensitive slit until John had to lean forward and rest his forehead against Obama's chest, breath coming in short staccato bursts. His rapid heartbeat was the only indication that Obama was affected by this at all.  
  
"Do you want to come, John?" Obama's voice was tight, controlled.  
  
John was so close, so close. "Please, please," he murmured, desperate, into Obama's shirtfront.  
  
Obama fucked John's cock with his fist until John came, spurting up into Obama's cupped hand, mouth open and gasping wetly against Obama's shirt. They stayed like that for a minute or so, until John's breath evened out. Then, Obama laid a steadying hand-- the other hand-- on John's shoulder, allowing John time to sit back before he stepped away. He pulled a few tissues from the box on John's desk and John watched, mesmerized, as Obama cleaned the come from his hand.  
  
Obama straightened his shirt and tie, slung his jacket over his shoulder, covering the damp spot left by John's mouth, and turned to leave.  
  
"W-wait," blurted John, not knowing why. He wanted... he wanted to talk. To discuss something for once instead of just doing nothing. This seemed as good a time as any.  
  
"You didn't say please," said Obama, and slipped out the door, leaving John with his pants down, his cock out, and an odd ache in his chest.


End file.
